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She meets him first in the early days of fall, before the leaves have fallen, just as the last heat of summer dies off. George brings him home, violent and avoidant. He picks fights with the other rams that they never win. He disappears in the day and roams the pastures at night. He does not sleep with the flock. He says he is a lone sheep.
The others scoff. They shake their heads and fret over what to do. Nobody can get near enough to speak with him without a fight. Nobody but George, maybe. The others say he's aggressive. She can't help but think he looks scared.
She watches him, those early weeks. How he lingers at the edges of the flock. How he lurks behind the caravan at story time, near but never present. He is interesting to watch, their lone black ram. Always separate. Always…orbiting. As if caught between creeping closer and fleeing altogether.
She decides to investigate.
In the morning, when the mist begins to curl about her hooves, Lily leaves the barn. She gathers the few autumn dandelions left so late in the year, growing behind the barn where no one else goes to look. She takes them up to the caravan, around the far side, and looks around at the turned-up dirt. This is where the ram must lay, evening after evening, listening to George's story. There she leaves the dandelions, piled up neat and orderly.
They're gone when she checks that night, the entire lot. The trot back to the barn is oddly exciting after that, some odd giddiness rising in her. This is something new—something exciting.
—
She does it again. She leaves out lush clovers and clumps of the tallest, greenest grass. She even saves him pieces of pumpkin and turnip that George throws out to pasture. The last bits of fresh, green food as slowly the flock comes to rely more and more on hay and grain. Time and time again her offerings disappear, eaten though she never sees the culprit. She catches him sometimes, lingering at the edges of the meadow. Watching.
They carry on this game through the fall and into winter, after all the green food has fled. She saves him scraps of celery and carrots and watermelon rind from George's dinner. Choice items, things the others squabble over. He's never there to get any, she figures, so she'll save him some.
A day finally comes where she can find nothing to offer. Everything is hay and grain. She saves him the alfalfa and orchard grass for a little while, since they're her favorite, but all the sheep are offered more of the same. She trots up behind the caravan still, though she's not sure why. Maybe she doesn't want their game to end.
But then, to her surprise, there's something already there. A flower, tall and vibrantly blue. Not food, she can tell, but something beautiful nonetheless. Like carrying with her a piece of the sky in spring. She tucks it into her wool, pleased and warm. The others ask after it, but she shakes her head and says she found it in some far corner of the pasture.
The gifts continue through winter and early spring. She receives odd flowers she's never seen before, small shining objects, smooth pebbles and strips of patterned cloth. She knows sheep are not supposed to have things, but she tucks them away behind the barn where the others don't go nonetheless. The thought of throwing them away makes her oddly sad.
One morning in spring, still early enough that the air is chilled, Lily creeps up to the caravan, circles it and stops short. The ram is there—tall and imposing. He's bent over the patch of dirt that's become their place, fussing with something she can't see. His wool is dark and sweeping, draping over his already large frame. Suddenly very unsure indeed, Lily takes a step back, knocking a bucket over in her haste.
She can see the way the ram startles, ears flat as he spins around with braced shoulders. There's a sprig of daffodil in his mouth, soft and yellow, the first she's seen this season. Something in her gentles.
“Are those for me?” She asks at last, not missing the way the ram flinches at the sound of her voice. He looks a second from bolting, head leant back and ears flattened.
Slowly, with a surprising gingerness, he deposits the flowers on the ground before straightening again. Stepping back a few paces, he coughs once. “I, ah…yes. They are for you.”
Something warm paints itself against her ribs, and Lily smiles. “Thank you. They're beautiful.” The ram shuffles again, uncomfortable, and Lily presses on; “everything has been beautiful. Your gifts are very kind.”
“Your—that is to say, I mean…yours as well,” he falters in his words, and Lily giggles. “I was only repaying the favor.”
“There's no favor to repay,” she admonishes gently. “I haven't done anything.”
She can see him struggle with this for a moment, ears twitching. “...fine,” he says at least, though Lily can tell he doesn't agree. “Then I merely wished to do something…kind, in return.”
The morning sun warms that slight bit, and Lily grins. “I suppose, If you really wish to repay me,” she muses, watching as the ram leans in with intent eyes, “then you could tell me your name.”
“My name?” The ram blinks.
“Of course,” Lily says. “I'd rather like to know. We've spent so long at this game, but I barely know anything about you.”
“Oh…” the mist is clearing all around them now, chased away by the rising sun. “Well, I—er. The shepherd…that is, George, he calls me Sebastian.”
“Sebastian,” Lily rolls the name around in her mouth, testing the feel of it on her tongue. “It's so lovely to meet you, Sebastian.”
—
Sebastian lurks often at the top of the cliff that lay at the furthest edge of the meadow. He stands up there, watching and distant. The others find him odd, they think his watching is creepy. She thinks maybe that he's protecting them. Keeping watch over their flock. It makes her feel warm to know he's out there.
One day, Lily traces over his steps. She walks down the long edge of the meadow, up the slope and to the cliff's edge. His ear flicks back when she approaches, surely having seen her coming. Their wool brushes only the barest bit as she comes to stand beside him and stare out over the meadow.
“It's beautiful up here,” she tells him, feeling the wind run its long fingers through her wool. The sun is just barely coming up, and she watches the golden light swallow up the shadows, creeping its way across the meadow. Like a very large sheep, she thinks, eating the dark grass of night.
“Yes,” Sebastian says gruffly. “It's the best view of the entire pasture.”
Lily hums, shifting closer so their sides might brush more firmly. “Lonely, though.”
The ram huffs a laugh. “I don't think so,” he says, “you're here with me.”
“Yes.” She leans further into his side, smiling as he leans his head to brush against hers. “I am.”
They meet more often, after that. At first with the pretense of their gifts, and then increasingly for no reason at all. They sit together behind the caravan, or at the far edges of the meadow, the cliff, even in Lily's space behind the barn. He is rather charming, she thinks. He tells her about the world beyond the meadow. About the town and the roads and ponds and shops and houses.
One night, he tells her of a carnival and dogs and a cruel, brutal life. She leans against him while he tells it. She thinks how unfair, how confusing it must be. To grow up loved and then hated. Sebastian is quiet for a very long time after that night. Lily waits for him to come back to her, patient and gentle.
—
“Oh, how pretty,” she murmurs, fawning over the flower Sebastian has brought her today. It's broad-petaled and brilliant in color, little speckles all down the length. He tucks it into her wool, brushing his face to hers.
His eyes are soft when he tells her, “it's a lily.” She startles, looks up at him. “I heard the humans say it, at the flower-place in town.”
“Oh,” she whispers. “Like —?”
Sebastian nods. “Yes. Beautiful, isn't it?”
Lily stares down at the flower, glances back up at him. She presses her face to his strong neck. “Thank you.” Sebastian lowers his head to touch hers, letting out one heavy breath.
“Of course.”
—
The others don't understand why she spends so much time with Sebastian. She tells them he's not so bad. He's still flock, after all. George brought him there for a reason. They leave her be, but they don't understand. She doesn't mind it. Sebastian is kind to her. He brings her gifts and tells her stories, accepts the scraps she forages for him gratefully. She spends much of her time roaming the meadow by his side, jumping about in the spring rain and laying beside him on clear nights.
Lambing season comes and goes, and Lily stares after all the little things with something like longing. She wonders how it would be, to raise a lamb with someone like Sebastian. He's gentle with her, kind. She thinks he would be good at it, but their time has passed. They will have to wait until the next season.
Spring passes into summer with lazy days. Sebastian still stays away from the rest of the flock, watching over them from afar. But she is with him often now. They eat summer dandelions and clover together, and exchange gifts still on occasion. Her collection of colourful bottle caps is ever-growing. She feels warm at his side, as though the sun were reaching through her wool to warm her heart. Even in the height of summer, she lays beside him.
But…as summer fizzles into fall, there's a certain fear that grips her. She feels… heavier. Tired more often. She eats more than before. Something's changed. It scares her, but Lily pushes it from her mind until the leaves have long since fallen from the trees.
By then she feels swollen, heavy with what must be a lamb. There's no other explanation for it, but the season is all wrong. At this rate… at this rate, she'll fall short of lambing season. But that can't happen. It can't because then… then…
She goes to Sebastian that night, after the realization settles in her. After it's calcified and fixed itself to the lining of her stomach like a stone. The moon rises with her, climbing the slope up to their cliff. The world feels strange, knowing she walks for two.
He's there alone, as he always is. Dark and immovable. When she collapses beside him, knees weak from the anxiety, he leans into her. Lily presses herself to his side, feeling almost sick.
“Beautiful night,” she says, but the wonder doesn't fill her as it usually would.
“Yes,” Sebastian agrees. And then, almost hesitantly, “you seem unwell.”
Lily is quiet for a time. She sighs. “I'm with lamb,” she tells him softly. Sebastian goes very still.
“You…” his words are slow, shock numbing the tongue. “How long…?”
Lily shakes her head, eyes stinging. “Too long, I… I mean. I'm too far along. I won't make it to spring.”
“A winter lamb…” Sebastian whispers. She can't discern the emotion in his voice.
“Yes,” Lily says grimly. “Oh, Sebastian, I don't know what to do.”
The ram is quiet for a long moment. But just as the dread begins to take root, he murmurs “what do you want to do?”
“Does it matter?” She asks, almost snaps. “A winter lamb is…it's not…”
“It's not what?” there's a hard edge to his voice now. Lily shrinks away.
“I don't know, Sebastian! Everyone's always said…they say it's bad luck. You never keep a winter lamb.” Her voice trembles. She's only barely accepted the child in her belly, and already she's lost it. She's lost it—
“I was a winter lamb.”
It startles her so much that she jolts away, turning to stare. Sebastian's head stays turned ahead, not looking at her.
“Before the circus, before the meadow. My mother bore me early. They took me away—put me in that pen.” He looks at her, bright eyes on hers. “What will you do, Lily?”
“Oh, Sebastian,” her voice wavers, breaking. “The others, they'll—”
“It's not their lamb,” Sebastian says, voice gentling. “It's ours.”
Lily presses her face to Sebastian's throat, trying to hide herself away. “I don't want to lose it,” she cries. “I don't want to lose my lamb.” He shushes her, rubbing his face against the top of her head.
“Then we won't,” he says. “We won't.”
—
The fall slips away from her, draining away to winter faster than she'd like. She grows heavier, more tender on her feet. She knows soon she will lamb, spending more time away from the flock. She knows they worry for her, but she feels so lonesome like this. She won't get to raise her lamb alongside the other ewes. It won't have any age-mates in its peers. She will be alone. Her and Sebastian. Sheep aren't meant to be alone.
It is a cold night when the lamb comes.
She's beyond the barn, laying in the grass and trying to warm him—a boy. He is smaller than she would have thought, speckled white and brown and black. She looks around frantically for Sebastian. He said he would be there, promised to help—but no one is there. She is alone, and her lamb is not moving. She cleans and smothers him in her wool, rubs his little nose. Over and over. But he doesn't move, doesn't try to nurse. He snuffles and shifts listlessly. A winter lamb. Too small and too cold and too weak.
Desperation drives her, she stands and tries to get him to follow, he needs to be warm but it is so cold. She doesn't know where Sebastian is. But… the lamb lists over, panting and unable to stand on his own. Leaving him pains her, but she cannot do this alone. She barely remembers running to the barn, barely remembers rousing Richfield from his sleep. The old ram is the oldest of the flock. He knows the most, has seen the most, and she needs him desperately.
Richfield follows her stumbling into the night, stopping still when she collapses beside the little lamb.
“Lily…” he shifts uneasily on his hooves.
“Help me,” she pleads. “He's not moving, Richfield.”
“He's cold,” the old ram says, voice gentle. “He’s—these things happen, with winter lambs.”
Lily shakes her head, crowding the lamb with warm wool. “I only just got him,” she whispers. “He can't be gone, yet, Richfield. He can't leave yet.”
“Lily, I—” Richfield begins, but he's cut off by the creaking of the caravan door, of a light flickering on.
“George!” Lily gasps, “oh, Richfield, you have to get George. George will help him.” The old ram steps back, a conflicted look on his face, but turns away with one more pleading glance.
“It's going to be okay,” Lily whispers to the silent lamb. “You're going to be just fine, baby. George is coming. He's coming.”
Moments pass like hours before footsteps draw near. George kneels in front of her, hands going immediately to her lamb. Lily bleats, relieved, until he goes to pick him up. Her ears twitch, feeling oddly anxious.
“George,” she says. But the shepherd is turning away, lamb tucked into his coat. “George! Wait!” She cries, scrambling to her hooves to follow after them, but she stumbles and falls instead. Richfield reaches her side, holding her back.
“It's alright, my dear, it's alright.” Lily shakes her head.
“Where is he taking him? Richfield, my lamb—”
“Lily,” he murmurs, and her words break. “Lily, dear. He was a winter lamb.”
“I don't care,” she cries. “I love him.”
“It was too cold,” the old ram soothes. “It wasn't your fault. It's the way of things with winter lambs. They always go, sooner or later.”
“It hurts,” she pants. “Richfield, Richfield it hurts—he took him. He took my baby.”
“Lily,” Richfield murmurs. Something in her feels cold. “Lily, what do we do about winter lambs?”
Her breath stutters. Her heart squeezes. She thinks of Sebastian and their place behind the caravan. She thinks of the warm place in her heart that holds her thoughts of him. It hurts, now. It hurts terribly, like she's dying. All the warmth has been taken away. She feels cold and aching and bereft. It's the worst thing she's ever felt. She wants it all to go away.
“We forget them,” she says, heart aching even as she says it. She feels far away, as if she's been buried in the hay. “We forget.”
“That's right,” Richfield soothes. “We will forget the hurt, okay Lily? Okay…let's count on it.”
“Five,” says the old ram. Lily shuts her eyes tight against the pain. She thinks about the lamb—her lamb. She thinks of his spotted coat and the mottled black of his hooves, black like—
“Four.”
—his father’s. She thinks of the pregnancy, of the worry, of knowing she was far past lambing season, that she would give birth too soon. Of knowing she would have a—
“Three.”
—winter lamb. A winter lamb like Sebastian. Sebastian who loves her, Sebastian who it hurts to think about, Sebastian with his—
“Two.”
—long dark wool, and broad curling horns. Who brought her flowers and rocks and shiny human things. Who she loves, she loves him so dearly, she doesn't want to forget, please, wait, don't make her forget—
“One.”
Lily opens her eyes. Her body aches, and she is very tired. She yawns. Richfield is in front of her, blinking and confused, but she doesn't remember why. Something bad must have happened, she thinks. She's very glad that she can't remember it.